


You Are Never Kissing Me Again

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [52]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Fluff, Impala Makeouts, Kissing, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Post-Series, Road Trips, Silly Dean, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 03:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2607068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys take a vacation to see Amish country one state over. At a rest stop along the way, Dean finds something worth interrupting a meal for. He soon regrets it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are Never Kissing Me Again

On the road to Amish country, there's a sign that says VIGNA that they both read as VAGINA.  
  
At a gas station an hour out of Chicago—where gas is cheaper—the lady working the register offers Dean a blow job for twenty bucks. She propositions him just like that, at ten in the morning, as if she's asking for sip of the two cups of coffee he's buying.  
  
"Ehh," Dean muses, a spark in his eyes. Money for their coffee is put down on the counter. He thumbs over towards Sam. "Got that one there, gives me head for free while I drive."  
  
Sam chokes on his coffee. Dean frowns. Disappointedly, he murmurs, "He's better than that, I swear."  
  
  
At noon they stop at a Dairy Queen, because it's either that or a pub with no name. Its owner is a heavyset man with armpit stains and a mean looking pet pig at his feet. Chicken tender baskets are eaten with ranch and barbecue sauce as they lean against the Impala. Dean steals more than what's fair from Sam's portion of fries. Sam wrangles the keys away from Dean as punishment. The opportunity to drive means that he will finally be able to listen to the newest Jack Johnson album.  
  
Corn and soybean fields fly past when they get back on the road. Cows look like tree stumps in their pastures, and Dean keeps track of the number of dilapidated farms they pass. He's up to seven when he decides that enough is enough.  
  
"I'm gonna blow you," he declares, reaching over and flicking Sam's right ear.  
  
"I'm driving," Sam huffs, annoyed by the idea and Dean’s fingers in such close proximity to his ear.  
  
Another flick, this one with a challenging smile attached. "No shit. Keep your hands on the wheel and try not to hurt my baby. Or, you know, kill us."  
  
Sam smacks Dean's hand away from his ear. "No! I'll pull over..."  
  
"Uh, that defeats the purpose of road head. Then it's just side of the road head and I'm not that kind of man, Sammy."  
  
Swerving slightly, Sam snips, "You wanna make it alive to Amish country and apple butter, you're gonna be that kind of man today." He pulls over on the side of the road and allows Dean one large frown before he stares him down. Dean sighs and gets to work.  
  
One blow job and ninety minutes of travel later, Sam pulls over at a rest stop. Although Dean likes to drive in one stretch, Sam is a believer in still having an ass at the end of a drive.  
  
This rest stop is nothing special out of the thousands they've been to and were practically raised in. There are picnic tables behind a concrete building that houses restrooms and vending machines. Nothing good is ever in those vending machines. To supplement their diet of Funyuns and Cheetos, John taught them how to grift at rest stops and diners. Dinner was whatever suburban families were willing to part with and how good their stories were. Dean was always a charmer; Sam preferred a quieter, more subtle approach. Either way, they managed well enough. No one starved. Now, in his late forties, Sam takes the green cooler out of the trunk and carries it over to their staked out picnic table. He hands Dean a sandwich and a glass bottle of Coke.  
  
"You should kiss me," Dean says as they sit down to eat.  
  
Sam makes a face. "Why would I wanna?"  
  
"Cause I'm the best lookin' dude here."  
  
The selection of dudes here include a father in his mid thirties who looks like he might snap at his five children any minute, and a gaggle of seniors. Dean has a point. But he's also eating his sandwich like a shark ripping through a school of fish. Lettuce and mayo are everywhere. Sam unwraps his sandwich and takes a civilized bite. Dean takes a swig of Coke and burps.  
  
"Yeah, that's attractive," Sam mutters.  
  
Smirking from behind his Coke, Dean snaps back, "I swallowed earlier, didn't I? That already makes me god damn attractive."  
  
"What'd I tell you about discussing bodily fluids at the table?"  
  
"Oh my god."  
  
"What?"  
  
Dean sets down the sad remains of his sandwich and stares open mouthed at something behind Sam. A piece of lettuce falls from its resting place on Dean's lip.  
  
Turning to look, Sam feels a sense of dread bloom in the pit of his gut. If it's bad enough to make Dean stop eating, he might have to sprint to the trunk and grab a gun. All is forgotten about lunch, kisses, or obscenities. Dean stands up from his seat and places his hands on the tabletop.  
  
Pointing behind Sam, Dean starts to move away from the table. "There's a tire swing!" he gasps. "Sam! Holy fuck."  
  
What alarms Sam more than the tire swing's existence--or Dean's reaction to it--is the speed at which Dean hauls ass. Despite being six foot two and fifty three years old, Dean smashes himself past the chains. He plops his hips into the center of the tire, wobbling to and fro before he finally spins, laughing loud and clear.  
  
Panic eases itself away from Sam's stomach and he takes in a deep breath.  
  
They haven't reached their destination, but Sam could turn back now and be entirely satisfied with how their weekend turned out from this one moment. Long, jean clad legs swing without reservation. Dean hangs upside down and holds his arms out towards Sam, who has by now walked up to the edge of the tire swing. The chains creak but the swing is sturdy enough so that the noises are only threats, not promises.  
  
The lack of pushing is noticed. Dean shoots a look. "Get on, douchebag."

“Not with your ass on there.”

“It’s fine, see?”

“You must’ve hit your head if you think we’ll both fit on there.” A smile betrays the bite to Sam’s tone. “Your ass barely fits.”

“Always a wet blanket,” is pouted and the woodchips underneath them are kicked at.

They’ve got fifty more miles before they reach Amish country and their B&B for the next two nights. There isn’t anything particularly interesting or scenic to see or do on the way from Chicago to Indiana; it’s all flat land and fields, run down towns that sit on the empty freeway. The relief of open space after being in the city wore off after an hour into their drive. Amish country does not demand their presence until three in the afternoon. It’s just past noon. There may be a few more detours and rest stops from here to there. They will get there when they get there.

The last stretch of driving will be done by Dean, who always insists on driving into their destination. But the cooler is half full, the iPod is charged, and there is a possibility that Dean may get one last blow job in the car if he behaves. That’s a big if.

Sam takes a step forward. Dean’s eyes widen and his mouth begins to open so he can protest. Too late. Sa may be forty something years old, but he is still more than six feet of muscle. He is also, most importantly, still a little brother. Grabbing hold of the chains, Sam yanks the tire swing forward, running with it and making it spin. He twists and turns it as fast as he can before he pitches with all of his body weight, launching the swing into infinity and beyond.

“SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!”

The scream has a shriek to it, which makes it sound more like a squeal of joy, mixed with a dash of terror.

“God damn… holy… mother… wait right there! Fucking…”

He continues to cuss and curse, eventually casting Sam from the car, their house, and the planet.

Above all the obscenities, Sam laughs so hard he folds over, hands on his knees, wheezing and struggling to breathe. Before Dean gets a hold of the motion of the tire swing, his legs and arms flail so it looks like Dean Winchester is stuck in the middle of a chocolate donut.

His face hurts by the time Dean manages to stop the swing. Sam tries to help, but Dean threatens to kick him in the balls. The chains squeak; Dean scrambles out, stumbling as he makes his way towards the car. There are more than a few moments where Sam thinks he might actually need to hold Dean up. Miraculously, Dean makes it back to the Impala, where he sets his hands down on the hood for balance.

If Sam could take a picture right now without losing dangly portions of himself, he would. Dean’s face is beet red and his clothes are askew. He fought the tire swing and the tire swing won.

Maybe this rest stop is a little different from the others.

“You didn’t finish your sandwich,” Sam cheerfully offers, standing next to Dean.

Before they left, Dean shined and polished the Impala until she shone. Even now, Dean is careful not to leave too many smudges on her from his hands. He glares at Sam.

“Soon as there aren’t two of you, I’m kicking your ass.”

“Before or after I kiss you?”

“You are never kissing me again.” Dean frowns. “Never. That’s what you get, you sadistic sonofabitch.”

With a shrug, Sam nods.  “I think that’s fair, Dean. I will never ever kiss you or put my mouth on you again.”

People shuffle in and out of the rest stop. Families pile out of their cars; parents race to the bathrooms while the kids are left free to roam. Road trip folks tumble out and split up to contemplate why they’re on this trip again and whether or not they can get away with strangling their partners. No one pays much attention to the two men leaning against the roof of slick, black Impala.

The cooler needs to be packed up. Sam has his eye on the rest of Dean’s Coke. He pushes himself off the Impala to set them back up for the road.

A hand grasps his left arm. Sam is pushed against the passenger side window. The hand moves from his arm to his chest, holding him still, matched by green eyes that want to remind him of his place—underneath Dean.

Their mouths are a few inches apart; their legs and hips bumping. Dean moves forward. Sam takes in a sharp breath.

And… Dean’s lips land on Sam’s chin.

“You missed,” Sam laughs, snorting slightly. “Oh my god, you missed.”

“Maybe if you’d hold still, motherfucker!”

“I _am_ holding still!”

“The fuck you are!”

Sam grabs the collar of Dean’s jacket and closes the distance between them. He doesn’t miss. Their lips crush together. Everything Sam has goes into this kiss. He means to soothe and excite simultaneously. With force, he pries Dean’s mouth open, breathing into him, fighting for control.

Abruptly, Sam separates them. Dean’s eyes flutter. He exhales slowly, looking like he’s forgiven and forgotten.

 

“C’mon,” Sam murmurs, his mouth once again close to Dean’s, “we got driving to do.”

They don’t last ten miles out before pulling over again.

**Author's Note:**

> my best friend got married this weekend, about five hours away. on this road trip to the wedding, i definitely found a tire swing at a rest stop and went to town. i just new this had to be worked into TCV somehow. XD 
> 
> something light and fluffy for you on this overcast, chilly wednesday. <3


End file.
